Twilight
by howlingmoonrise
Summary: Collection of entries for Free x Eruka Week 2015, hosted on Tumblr. Series of oneshots and drabbles. Freeruka.
1. Beast - Monster

My entry for Day One of Freeruka Week! Contains a light sprinkle of dub-con because of the madness, so be wary of that. Also, there is a mention of canon attempted suicide (under influence of the madness, but still).

Enjoy!

* * *

Free is a werewolf. That is something that he's never forgotten, ever present in his mind, in his body, in his very _blood_. But there is still a line that separates his being as a creature that is classified as a monster, and actually _being_ a monster.

Not like Azura is.

Not like Medusa is.

And though there's still people that would call him a monster, a beast, and run away terrified, Free himself has never felt the sensation of fear.

Not until now.

Eruka smiles darkly at him from her place in the corner, and even knowing she's nearly half his size and that he's far stronger than she could ever hope to be, Free still finds himself taking a step backward.

"We could go to Shibusen," he stammers out. "Maybe there's something they can do about-"

Eruka lets out a high-pitched bout of laughter. "About the madness, you mean? That lot couldn't even deal with it when it was attacking their own people."

He thinks of how it could have possibly come to this - a stray snake left on her body, perhaps, mixed with too much exposure to black blood and madness and witches' propensity to destructiveness. All he knows is that her eyes have a mad glint to them now, and she's not behaving the same. Free supposes he should be grateful she's not being outright violent, or acting too weirdly, or trying to kill him - or _herself_ , as they both had done under the influence of Azura's madness - but she's not fully acting like herself, either, and he's not too sure about that.

She takes another step towards him, and he backs away further.

"I should freeze you in place," she says conversationally. "But freezing things is _your_ realm of expertise, after all. I don't suppose you'll want to do it yourself."

His back is nearing the wall at an alarming rate, so he switches directions. "Not really."

She sighs disappointedly. "Oh, well." Her eyes are fixed on his, dark and holding something that looks like a promise. His blood runs faster when her gaze doesn't let up, running to places that it probably shouldn't go when he's in a situation such as this.

His knees hit something - probably a box, or a low chair, _something_ , but he's clumsy enough in all his height that it probably doesn't even matter, in the end - and he falls back, cold tile hitting his backside. Eruka's grin curls into something more sinister, more _predatory_ , and he shivers. He shivers, and tries to ignore the lightheadedness that takes hold when she slows to a crawl over him.

Her hands are impossibly tiny, impossibly innocent-looking against the muscles of his chest, and she curls her fingers until the tips of her nails are digging into his flesh. There's a thrill running down his spine, a spike of pure adrenaline - one that tells him to _run_ , to _fight_ , to maybe _stay_ and pull her against him and-

She licks the side of his neck, slow and languid and _hot_ , hot in a way that nearly makes him feel like he's burning inside, and Free groans.

 _We shouldn't be doing this like this_ , he wants to say. _You're the kind of witch that likes to go slow and this is not it. We should go look for a way to get you back to normal._

"Um," he says instead, and immediately feels like facepalming afterwards. "Eruka-"

But her name comes out as a moan, and now he's caught in her dark eyes once more. "Good doggie knows my name," she coos, and he's torn between laughing and crying out in desperation. Her nails drag downwards, until they reach the uncovered slice of skin between his pants and his shirt, and her gaze becomes all the more attentive as she sinks them into his skin.

He can't help but groan again, and if it comes as a little less pained and a little more pleasured than it should - well, he's been locked away and lonely for longer than he can count, and maybe he has a little more than lingering affection for his silver-haired partner, enough that he has to remind himself again as to _why_ _this is a bad idea_. His hands fly to hold hers in place; he might be a man, a werewolf, someone who isn't all there anymore, but there's something in his gut that tells him that she's not quite herself either.

And then teeth - sharp teeth, much sharper than he had ever thought they would be in the few moments of quiet consideration every night before he goes to sleep - sink into the junction of his neck with his shoulder, and Free is lost. So, _so_ lost, throwing his head back and howling as if the full moon is out and he's out for a hunt, relishing on the pleasure-pain he's always been weak to.

"Eruka," he pants out, and she seems pleased when she raises her head to look at him again.

"Good boy," she compliments. There is her sharp smile, teeth glinting in the low evening light, drawn on her face as if the best of artists had carved it themselves. He's so, _so_ lost, and she knows it; she relishes in it with the wicked perversion only a witch is capable of. He keeps forgetting that she belongs to such a species, mellow and fearful as she is - _was_ \- under Medusa's hand, but there's definitely something in the lines of her face, in the curve of her body, in the very air around her tonight, that makes him remember just why he generally tries to steer clear from witches on his good days.

His partner brings his hands, still holding hers, to her lips. They're thin, dark, as if stained with berry juices, and they caress the back of his hands softly enough that it deceives him into loosening his hold on hers. A glint of teeth; they scrape across his skin and he feels hot, too hot, like his very blood is liquid fire trying to escape from within him - maybe it's something to do with how messed up he is after years of solitary confinement, maybe it's from his nature as a werewolf, but his eyes turn as dark as hers and he finds himself licking his own lips in anticipation.

 _No_ , the few parts of his brain still functioning protest. _You need to do something_. But then her tongue is curling against her teeth in a sinful manner, one he'd never thought he'd see from the tiny witch always at his side, and his thoughts become even hazier.

A freed hand makes its way to his face, caressing his jawline, caressing the slope of his cheekbones, caressing the tattoo where his left eyebrow should be-

And caressing his lips, as softly as the flutter of a butterfly's wing.

"Eruka," he mutters again, the only word he seems capable of saying.

"Shhh," she chides, as if he's her loyal, faithful dog, and slices his lower lip with the sharpness of her nails.

He wants to protest, but she's leaning down - down, _down_ , so close that he can see the freckles that are dusted across her skin, nearly invisible, so close that he can admire the whiteness of her lashes-

Her tongue, pink and hot and tiny, as tiny as the rest of her, slides out from between her lips. He's transfixed, nearly going cross-eyed as he watches, hypnotized by her dark gaze and pretty lips and soft skin - and then her tongue swipes across his lower lip, tasting blood and skin and _him_ , and it's a slow torture that he never wants to end.

And then she's slanting her lips over his, or maybe he's slanting his lips over hers, and his hips might be nudging against hers a little too desperately, and his blood sings her name, _Eruka Eruka Eruka,_ as if it's the very beat of his heart, and he wants this; he wants this _so bad_ , so _much_ , so _fiercely_ that he can feel himself going mad over it.

"Wolf wolves, wolf wolves," he chokes out, and she freezes above him.

It's hard getting himself from beneath her. Their legs are tangled together, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt his tiny partner, so it's a slow, painful process that gives him no pleasure at all.

"Sorry," he mutters to her frozen form, a hand lifting to caress the air in front of her; he drops it quickly. Free has an odd urge to justify himself, to tell her why he'd allowed her to get so far when they only skirt around the very subject of a _relationship_ when they're both sane and sober; he decides that having a conscience and actually _liking_ someone is a lot of work. "We'll get you back to normal, I promise."

 _You're not a monster_ , Eruka has said to him more than once, and he's never been too sure about it until now.

Because he is a beast, a monster on the literal sense of the word, and he's always been aware of that. But now Free knows it's not that simple; he knows he'll submit himself to another millennia or so of darkness and solitude and imprisonment before he allows himself to also become more of a monster on the inside. Eruka's open, frozen eyes are still fixed on him; he wants to imagine that she looks a little proud.


	2. Protection

My entry for Day 2 - Protection. Enjoy!

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* * *

.

A snake tells you, "There's a way to kill a werewolf, and I've found it."

It's a tiny vial; when the lid is twisted, a syringe comes out. The needle is thick, unforgiving, made to pierce through skin and maybe even bone, if necessary. You think of the kind of creature that would need such a method to be killed, and shiver.

"You'll do it," says the snake, and it slithers away.

* * *

Free is the name of the werewolf; he allows you to ride on his massive shoulders when you're on your frog form, and even a couple times when you're not. His arms are big, and so is his back, and his legs, and the rest of him, and you think of how such a tiny vial is supposed to bring such a gigantic man down.

He takes care not to squash you, and you grow to appreciate him for it. He's a rough man - or rather, _werewolf_ , a being you should be afraid of but instead are developing something that could be called a friendship with - with brusque manners and a sharp, loud laugh, and completely unable to read situations.

You grow fond of him, and it's terrifying.

* * *

He doesn't leave you when you're scared and injured, and you're not too sure what to think of it.

"We're partners," he justifies with a roguish grin, too wide and too sharp and too white, and it would unnerve you if you didn't find it to be so comforting.

You bury your face inside your hat. "Idiot," you mumble, and both of you know you don't mean it. _Thank you_ is what you want to say, and you think the message gets across.

* * *

You've always been the kind of witch that runs away from everything, though nowadays it's become much worse. From shadows to confrontations, you skitter around them, waiting for an attack, and your partner - yes, because he's decidedly your _partner_ now, there's no denying it - laughs gently at you when you jump at yet another rustling leaf.

He teases you and you scowl and stammer out an excuse neither of you pay too much attention to; by now it's become a routine. He teases you, and you scowl and stammer out your excuse, and then he laughs at it and steps a little closer to you so you can feel a little less afraid.

He's warm by your side, yet the little vial in your pocket makes your heart feel heavy and cold.

* * *

"Eruka," he gasps out. "Run."

The giant you consider a friend is very unlike you; he doesn't like to run away or give up on things, so when he tells you to do so you know it's too much for you to handle. But a snake has told you what to do in a situation like this - a situation where he's defying her orders, striving to protect someone else, even if that someone is you - and your hand unconsciously travels to your left pocket, where you keep your little vial of werewolf poison.

You can't do it. Not now. Possibly not ever, but you chose to ignore that. "No," you say. "You can't protect me forever." So you join your magic to his, and you and him are racing out, limping and bloody and bruised but _alive_ , and the vial is still intact.

* * *

The snake eyes you with eyes that know too much. "Give me the vial," it says.

You look at the man that you've grown to like maybe a little too much, gentle and rough as he is, and your hand curls inside your pocket. _No_ , you want to say, but you don't have the courage. You never do. So instead you flick out the needle - and it's so _thick_ , you remember it being so, and your heart is pumping a wild beat against your ribs when you think of it - and you stab it in your own leg before the snake can stop you from doing so.

You ignore its howls of outrage as you fall back, caught within large, warm arms that bring you comfort even when pain seizes your limbs. You don't know what was inside that vial, but there's a chance that it won't affect you - a lot of frogs have poison within themselves, after all, and everyone knows that fairytale creatures are weak against the most ridiculous of things - and you're counting on it. You meet his worried eyes with your own, and croak out, "Now it's my turn to protect you."

* * *

You survive.

You make it through the poison, make it through the following battles, and against all odds you're still alive and relatively unscathed when the new Shinigami's coronation arrives. You lean back against your partner - and it's such an odd word, _partner_ , too small and at the same time too perfect to describe the kind of bond the two of you have - and smile.

There are no snakes whispering in your ear, no vials in your pocket too heavy for their size, no expectations or dread of what is to come. It's such an odd feeling, and you savour it. It's sweet, and for once you're able to look towards the future with curious antecipation. Peace is reigning, you are free, and the man who enjoys freedom as much as you do stands by your side. If there was a snake, you'd tell it, "There's a way to love a werewolf, and I've found it."


	3. Fairytale

Day 3 is finally done! Enjoy!

* * *

Once upon a time, there lived a witch. And she was a very pretty, very wicked witch, or so she liked to think. Her silvery hair, with blue shades when the moon was out, was as pure-looking as snow, and her eyes were as dark and deep as a water well; the witch liked to think that her appearance made her twice as wicked, for she could draw in more people with it.

Eruka was her name, and she made her little house by a swamp, where the smells of greenery and water and life permeated the air. The croaking of frogs and the chirruping of crickets kept her company by night; by day, when she felt like being particularly wicked, she travelled all the way to nearby villages to set curses on people. Eruka liked to think she was particularly good at those, but if she were to be honest with herself she knew that her speciality were potions.

Potions - venoms and poisons, salves and healing ointments, liquids that could shrink you or make you grow another head or even make someone temporarily believe they were in love with you; she made them all. And she sold them under the guise of an old lady, the same one she used when cursing people, the one that could pass as both an nasty hag and a wise woman.

And it was under such a disguise that our tale began.

Eruka the Witch was feeling very satisfied with herself, having cursed two young sisters - one to spew pearls and diamonds and thorny roses when she spoke, and the other to croak out various kinds of frogs and toads whenever she tried to say anything. Her stock of potions had sold very well; her pockets were satisfyingly full with golden coins, making her cloak sag with their weight. And it was because she was on such a good mood - at least that's what she told herself - that she didn't immediately curse the very large, very sad-looking and wounded dog that nearly made her trip to spend the rest of his days as a horse fly.

It whined pathetically as she tried to nudge it aside with her foot.

"Shoo," she said. "You're blocking the way to my house."

It whined again.

"Shoo," she repeated again, growing irritated. "I _will_ turn you into a horse fly."

The dog seemed to think that it was better not to push his luck, because it made a pitiful - yet successful - attempt at getting up, dragging with him the chains she hadn't noticed were binding him. It whined once more.

Eruka sneered at it. "What do you expect me to do? Grow you a gingerbread doghouse out of the dirt?"

It nudged its head against her thigh - really, what _did_ this dog eat? It was gigantic! - and Eruka recoiled at it, fearful of drool and possibly very sharp, very big teeth.

"Nuh-huh," she said. "Absolutely not. You stay here, _far away from me_ , and I'll go on my way, and we'll both be better off for it." Except she could see blood staining its fur in several places, and his front paw was bent in a way that wasn't natural in the slightest.

The dog had one blind eye, and both it and the healthy one shone at her in a painful plea.

Eruka refused to be swayed. She cast another glamour over herself, just to make her look more and more unappealing. "I am just an old hag, dog, don't go thinking I'll take care of you."

It looked at her sceptically.

"Okay, so I might not be an old hag," Eruka grudgingly admitted, unsure of why she was still talking to a dog when there was a warm, comfortable chair waiting for her at home. "But I'm not freeing you or taking you anywhere."

To get her point across, she slowly backed away - one never knew with wild, wounded creatures, after all - circling around the animal to the best of her ability in the tight space. The dog didn't whine again, but its eyes followed her every motion until she was well away from it. Then, it laid back on the ground, looking defeated. It closed its eyes.

Eruka tried not to feel guilty as she sped up in her way towards home. She was a very wicked witch, after all.

* * *

Eruka had prepared a steaming cup of swamp moss tea and settled down on her favourite chair, covering up in a fuzzy blanket and stretching her toes in front of the magical fireplace.

Then, "Ugh." She set the cup aside. "Mabadamn it."

She went back out.

* * *

A couple drops of her most corrosive potion worked to break the chains apart; the hardest part was definitely to drag the dog back home, even with a lightening potion in effect _and_ Tadpole Jackson helping.

"Don't smirk at me like that," she chastised it. "I can still leave you here."

The dog's smug expression immediately fell, and it was her turn to smirk.

But it still wasn't enough. Her reputation was at stake here. "I'm going to use you in a potion," Eruka warned. "So don't think I'm being friendly or anything."

The dog licked her face in response.

" _And,_ " she continued. "I'm not naming you. Because you're going in the aforementioned potion."

The animal's expression remained unconcerned. Eruka bristled.

"I _am_ a wicked witch, alright?" she defended herself irritatedly. "You just caught me on a bad day. Or a good day. I don't even know anymore."

It slobbered all over her sleeve, and then her house was in sight. Eruka sighed in relief.

"You're staying outside, obviously," she said to the oblivious dog. It barked happily, wagging its bloody tail, and Eruka winced. "Seriously. You're not getting blood all over my nice moss carpet."

So against her better judgement, she fetched her healing salves and an old shirt, and worked at washing the blood off so she could see what she was working with.

"Honestly," she scowled. "What were you up to that got you in such a state?"

The dog seemed content to remain quiet under her hands, which was honestly a relief. Eruka didn't fancy any dog bites on top of an aching back from dragging the oversized animal home. When she went to examine its blind eye, it licked at her hands eagerly, dirty and bloody as they were, and Eruka snatched them back quickly.

"Ew," she said. And then, to make her point, she repeated it. " _Ew_."

Next were the salves; poultices spread over wounds with a quick spell or two to help with the healing process, and she made sure to cast a sleeping charm over the dog when the time came to set its leg. Wicked witch she may be, but there were limits to even that.

When she finished bandaging up the dog with scraps of fabric torn from the old shirt, the animal was covered in more bandages than fur. A quick check determined it as a _he;_ his half-lidded eyes remained unfocused under the sleeping spell as she got up, cleaning her hands.

"All done," she muttered. "Just don't be here in the morning."

* * *

He was still there in the morning.

His tail wagged excitedly as she stared from her front door, horrified, and then attempted to close it; the dog wasn't having any of it.

" _No,_ " Eruka screeched as the dog somehow got his head through the small opening, with only a small whine of pain over having applied force over his broken leg. "Bad dog!"

The 'bad dog' seemed to grin at her, blind eye shining brightly in the sunlight. Eruka did her best evil impression - not that she wasn't evil, of course, but there was always a meaner and eviller level to achieve - and bared her teeth at him menacingly.

"Absolutely not," she hissed, and the dog barked happily. She barely dodged yet another affectionate swipe of his tongue; the damned creature seemed to be doing it on purpose after knowing how much drool bothered her. "Go get yourself some food or something."

And by that she meant _away_ from her, not her _kitchen_. With a strong push, the dog was flying past the door and limping accelaratedly towards her fresh pot of snake broth - she had a vindictive pleasure in boiling the things after an incident when she had been a far younger witch - and Eruka huffed in exasperation.

"You're being terrible at convincing me not to turn you into an insect."

* * *

It was very hard to get the damned dog back out of the door; but when night had fallen she had her house to herself again. Eruka sighed in relief.

A mug of tea was in order, and so was laying down in the sofa. It was very relaxing - at least until she found the dog fur covering it. Her expression darkened.

"I am going to turn that dog into a loyalty potion," she promised herself.

But then it was time to go to bed, and the howls started. They were pitiful, desperate, and that, coupled with the scratching coming from her front door, were enough to make her pull a pillow over her head.

"I'm not letting you in!" she shouted, hoping the dog would hear her.

The howling lasted the whole night, and Eruka felt like crying.

* * *

When morning arrived, the dog was napping peacefully in her doorstep.

"Of course you are," she muttered angrily. "Kept me up all night, and then just sleep away. Oh _no_ , not on my watch."

She kicked him awake - not too hard, because she was afraid of getting bitten, not because she didn't want to cause him any harm, or so she told herself - and tossed him a scrap of meat.

"That's all I'm giving you," she announced, ignoring the fact that she was most likely lying. Then she wondered if the wickedest thing was to lie or to actually not feed a dog that wasn't even hers, and decided to put off thinking for the rest of the day. Sometimes being wicked required a lot of mental gymnastics.

The dog looked confusedly at her, and Eruka remembered she had taken off her old woman's disguise at night.

"You're a _dog,_ " she said. "Aren't you supposed to distinguish people by smell or something? Either way, I'm heading out. Feel free to get lost and not come back."

Of course, the stupid dog decided to ignore her well-meaning - er, ill-meaning? - advice, and followed her instead, limping after her as she collected milkweed and cypress bark and duckweed.

She wagged a finger at him. "These are the ingredients that are going in the soup with your bones, dog."

The dog stared at her in wonder, and Eruka decided that it was a lost case.

* * *

Somehow, he had wormed itself into her house by night. Eruka thought it was probably because her mind was pretty hazy after not having slept the night before - it certainly wasn't because the dog looked so happy at being inside with her that she didn't have the heart to kick him out - and so decided to be twice as grumpy so the giant canine could see she wasn't pleased in the slightest.

"You're _not_ to sleep on my chair," she threatened. "Or I'll make a nice, warm blanket out of your fur."

The dog yawned and leapt onto her chair. Eruka narrowed her eyes.

"Now listen here-"

The dog closed his eyes, blatantly disregarding whatever else she had to say; Eruka fumed and walked over to him angrily. Then she proceeded to poke him even more angrily.

Nothing. The giant, stupid animal was asleep.

Eruka decided to take it as a win that at least he wasn't sleeping in her bed, and locked up tight in her room that night.

* * *

"I'm not naming you," she said as the canine scratched himself lazily. "Because if I named you it would mean I actually _liked_ you, or had intentions to keep you, or something stupid like that. But I also can't keep calling you 'the dog' constantly, so now you're officially Dog."

Dog bared his teeth, showing just how much he appreciated the new nickname. Eruka smiled in sadistic glee at having unsettled the animal.

That night, he took his revenge by sleeping in her bed.

* * *

His leg was healed enough that he now pranced everywhere happily, muscled mass and fur all over the place. She took the chance to go into town again to replenish her supplies, and he followed her like he had taken to doing during his stay with her.

But something was different this time; people were paling and hiding away when they saw her, and Eruka wondered if she had been too conspicuous last time she had visited this village.

A particularly courageous old man approached her, though he was shaking and sweating in fear. "Madam," he said, voice breaking. "We can help you hide, if you manage to make a quick getaway."

Eruka frowned quizzically, dropping her old woman mannerisms in her puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

The man looked behind her, and Eruka followed his gaze, seeing only Dog. Sure, the dog was unnaturally big, but he was very friendly-looking, tail wagging and tongue lolling out innocently and all. "Your wolf, Madam," he said, and Eruka felt the blackened, withered remnants of her heart drop to her feet.

"My _what?_ " she screeched. Both Dog and the man winced.

"Y-your wolf, Madam," repeated the old man, looking even more fearful than before. "The werewolf following you. We heard tales of it, but we thought it was dead."

Eruka tried to gather her thoughts, but they were spread, scrambled and lost all over her mind. "Surely you jest, my good sir? It's day, and not even a full moon."

"A curse," whispered the man. "Not from the bite, just a transformation. A witch did it, I hear."

Well. Eruka turned on Dog, eyes flashing furiously. "We'll talk later," she promised threateningly to him, in a low whisper. And then, to the old man, "Thank you very much for your warning, kind sir. But I have a White Witch's blessing cast upon me, from a long time ago, so he shan't attack me."

"Blessed be, Madam," said the man, and then backed away quickly.

* * *

Eruka stormed inside her house, cloak flaring as she threw it over her shoulder.

"You didn't _think_ to tell me of this?" she raged. "I've been living with a _man_ inside my house for weeks now, sleeping _in my bed_ , seeing me all unkept, and _not once_ did you give me a sign!"

Dog the Wolf whimpered.

"Oh, don't pull that on me," she hissed. "You know you did wrong! I should leave you as a dog for the rest of eternity!"

Dog covered his eyes with a paw.

"You're terrible," she complained, heading over to her potions cabinet. "Forget staying as a dog, you should be a rat! An insect! A snake, one of those that go in my soup!"

She found the right vial, one for undoing human to large mammals transformations, and poured it in his water bowl.

Eruka tapped her feet impatiently. "Drink up," she ordered. "We'll sort this out once you can actually talk."

Dog the Wolf drank. And the he wasn't a dog, or a wolf, but instead a very large, very muscled, very _naked_ man on all fours in front of her, and Eruka screamed.

The man made an annoyed expression. "You're ruining my eardrums," he complained, voice rough from disuse, and Eruka decided he was rather handsome for someone who was getting kicked out of her house very soon.

"You're ruining my _life_ ," she argued back. "And my _career_. Do you know how many wicked points I've lost for helping you?"

"You don't _look_ wicked," he said, casting an appraising look at her. "You actually look very nice. And you _are_ nice, from what I've seen."

Eruka decided they should _not_ have this conversation while one of the parties was naked, and threw him her cloak. He draped it over his lap while sitting on _her_ chair, and she bristled. And then she reddened because really, the man was so big her cloak barely covered anything.

"I'm not nice," she countered. "Or good, or any degrading adjectives of the sort, so don't even go there."

"Neither am I," he said, wriggling his fingers towards his blind eye, which upon a closer look wasn't blind at all. Eruka paled.

"Is that-"

The man grinned, a dangerous grin that had her mind readying a defensive spell. "Yes."

"Oh, Maba," Eruka cursed faintly to herself. "I'm dead, aren't I?"

"Not really," the man said, casting a curious look around her house. "Wow, this seemed much bigger when I was a wolf."

"That's because you're freakishly big," she snapped, and then realized that such a comment, coupled with his nakedness, could certainly be interpreted in other ways.

He confirmed her suspicions with a heated look. "You have no idea."

And now this seemed like the opening of a steamy scene on one of those books Mizune occasionally lended her. Eruka cursed inwardly at the direction her mind was going.

She tried to misdirect his attention. "What's your name, Dog?"

He wasn't fooled, but he decided to reply amenably anyway. "I don't go by my old name anymore."

"So now you're _really_ named Dog," she flatly said. "Amazing."

"I don't think so," he mused. "But it's nice to know I can pick a new name."

"Wolf?" she dryly suggested.

He grinned roguishly. "You freed me from my curse, so I think now I'll be Free."

She groaned. "You're even worse at picking names than I am."

"Oh." He smiled mischievously. "So then you _were_ naming me. I assume that you plan to keep me?"

Eruka flushed and blustered through her words for the next several hours. But at the end of the day, she couldn't bring herself to kick him out. So, with much bickering and accusations of smelling like a wet dog and of actually being quite soft-hearted, and, later, lingering glances and caresses and kisses, they lived happily ever after.

THE END.


	4. Scent - Instincts

This is so friggin late. Also NSFW so I upped the story's rating to M.

* * *

Free is, above all else, a werewolf. That means he's big, fast, strong - bigger, faster, and stronger than nearly all his enemies - and has an incredible sense of hearing and smell.

He's learned to rely on his senses when it comes to dealing with people. The sharp, acrid scent of fear; the thick-tasting nervousness when one tells a lie, the almost-bitter, sickly sweetness of deception - one he came to associate with Medusa soon enough -, the individual smell of each individual that made him able to tell apart every person in the room even if he had been blinded.

Medusa smells like perfume and poison, as deceptive as her words, layered with confidence and cunning, and a subtle, nearly non-existent tang of fear when he's nearby. He should be offended that she doesn't fear him properly, that she has him pegged as a pawn she can control when all he offered was his gratitude, but there are more important things in his mind.

Eruka smells like plants and rain, and he drifts closer to her more and more. Her scent is nearly overpowered by fear when she's around Medusa or the woman is mentioned, and so his dislike for the snake witch grows. She never smells like fear when she's around him, though, and he not once thinks to be offended for it. Free feels flattered more than anything, that his tiny companion trusts him enough not to believe he'll cause her any harm.

And he won't, of course.

He's a little too fascinated by the witch travelling on his shoulder in frog form, chattering in his ear about all sorts of thing; a little too drawn in by her long hair flickering in the breeze and the splatter of goodness in her heart that even a witch's desire for destruction can't destroy. He learns to read her every mood in the air beyond the ever-present fear of the snake witch; more often than not it's the sweet, light scent of affection, like mildewed flowers, or the bitter, clove-y smell of regret.

And now, there's something he doesn't quite know how to identify. Or rather, doesn't quite _dare_ to identify, afraid that hopefulness is making his smell things that aren't there, at least not directed towards _him_ \- but then he sees her eyes fixed on him as her thighs clench under the skirt of her dress, as she squirms in her seat-

Suddenly, he feels too hot.

 _Arousal_. That's something he hasn't dealt with for a very long time, for longer than he'd been made prisoner for stealing Maaba's Eye and taking it for his own. It's almost a foreign sensation to him now - it itches uncomfortably underneath his skin, making him flushed and hot under his clothes, and he resists the urge to squirm as well. To _squirm_ , or to do something he might regret - like stride across the few steps that separate him from the frog witch, muscles and sheer mass taking up as much space as possible, in the true way of a predator, and bend down to take her lips, her skin, _her_ , if she'd allow him to.

Free wants to think that she _would_ allow him to, but he doesn't want to risk it. His tongue darts out against his will, licking his suddenly very dry lips, tasting at the air in hopes of a thicker, stronger feel of her scent.

He's nearly knocked over at the sheer strength of it.

"Uhm," he says to clear his throat, because it's all too dry. That, and his pants might be a little too tight, a little too snug against a part of him that has no problems in completely disregarding _feelings_ and relatively good manners and societal norms of _not getting hard in public._ The only public, being, of course, the tiny witch he's so fixated on, and that makes it all the more embarrassing. She startles at the sound, her dark eyes chasing his, and now he's the one clenching his legs together in search of relief.

And then. Then, a smirk draws itself across her face, and he's very much reminded that she's a _witch,_ one attuned to her animal side, and Free wonders just how much of the whole situation was planned.

He's so fucked. Metaphorically - but hopefully, literally as well.

Free follows her outside. It's already dark, crickets chirruping all around their hideout, blissfully ignorant of its occupants, and Eruka dives into the woods with a kind of confidence he generally doesn't expect from her. But his night-vision is good - good enough that he doesn't lose track of her, good enough that he can spot the flutters of white-blue hair even if he couldn't smell her scent - so strong that he can't sense anything else. And it's as his instincts grow sharper and their pacing becomes quicker that he realizes it.

She's making him chase her.

Her eyes glint in the dark, further and further from where he is, and he lets his instincts take over. Free is only relying on his senses now, and he thunders down the forest paths with all the agility and speed of a wolf hunting down his prey. His blood runs boiling hot under his skin; he hasn't felt this excitement, this amount of adrenaline, this _primal_ since centuries ago.

Something darts at his side, and he's pouncing on it before he even realizes it. But it's just a tadpole, one of those inky black ones Eruka likes to produce while in battle, and he growls as he realizes that she's throwing him of her track, difficulting the chase. It's... oddly thrilling.

More and more figures dart through the trees, and he decides that he shouldn't trust his vision or hearing as much as his sense of smell. Her scent is still strong, overpowering, muddling his brain until his only thoughts are to find her, find her, _find her_.

And find her he does.

He goes barrelling through bushes, splintering them with the sheer force of his movement, and then she's trapped. Trapped against a tree, trapped within his arms, trapped between bark and _him_ , and she's breathing heavily, eyes half-lidded and dark as she looks at him. Free shivers.

She licks her lips. "Not bad."

Her body is shifting beneath his, rubbing against him in a way that has him seeing stars, and from the slow smirk on her lips he can tell she knows exactly what she's doing to him. He keeps forgetting, keeps forgetting that she's a witch, that she's a force of destruction and chaos and magic and mischief, and she's using that against him.

"Not bad yourself," he rumbles out, barely escaping choking on the words. Her thighs are soaked with something he's quite certain isn't sweat, and it takes him daring to let his hand travel from its place beside her head to find that she's not even wearing tights anymore. Beneath his touch there's only bare leg, slick with the juices running down them, and she grips his hand and presses it against her skin harder, deeper _,_ letting him know that she wants this as much as he does.

And he wants this very much. So, _so_ much.

Her nails are like his own; claws, tearing apart clothing until it lies in scraps on the ground, drawing small beads of blood along his back with a ferocity he hadn't been expecting. Free hadn't been expecting it - hadn't been expecting any of this - but he finds himself enjoying it perhaps a little too much. She pulls him down by his hair, stretching until her breasts are rubbing in the most delicious of manners against his chest, and he bends down so she can look him in the face.

Her smirk grows wider. She leans forward, letting white teeth glint in the moonlight as she bites his lower lip and drags it towards her, taking him along until her lips slant across his. And he's lost - lost to it, lost to her, drowning in her lips and her taste and her scent, pushing himself closer until there's no space between them, pulling her up so her hips are aligned with his-

She mewls into his mouth, shuddering and wanting; he thinks he's dying a little. But if this is what dying feels like, he wants this for every hour, every day of his immortal life, buried between the hips of the witch that has ensnared him so. He pulls her further up, until her legs are trembling around his neck, suffocating him; he drowns himself further in her as he dives into their middle, tongue out and dragging and _licking_ until her cries scare away whichever creatures still dared to be in the woods in their presence. He eats her like a starved animal, slurping and grunting and breathing in short instances so he doesn't have to stay away from her flesh. She pulls at his hair, hard enough that his scalp twinges in pain; drags her nails over her breasts, leaving red welts over the white skin as her nipples bead against the cold night air; pushes her hips further into his mouth. He can't breath; he doesn't want to breath, not when he can be doing _this._ She screams once more into the night.

Her knees give away when he pulls her down tentatively; she holds herself up against him, letting her hands wander and making her intentions quite clear. Free is afraid; his partner is tiny, too tiny in comparison to him. But she seems wholly unconcerned about it - _witches are made of tough stuff_ , he remembers her saying in more than one occasion, but he's not sure to what extent it applies in this kind of situation.

But she's wet, slick against him, and somehow he fits. She pulls herself onto his lap, rocking against him in wild abandon; he's sure that magic is somehow involved but he isn't minimally interested in complaining, if he could even speak at the moment. All his throat seems to be able to let out are moans, grunts, growls, all manner of desperate sounds that have her preening with sheer witchy smugness. They multiply when they change position, and suddenly her back is arching in a sharp curve and her hands are gripping handfuls of dirt on the ground beneath her, writhing and laughing and moaning as he keeps taking her, this time like a wolf would take his mate. He wonders if she knows what this means to him, the implications of it - Eruka has always been far smarter than she lets on, and like her darker tendencies, he keeps forgetting those small parts of her.

Her hair falls over one shoulder, a silvery-blue curtain in the moonlight; she twists her head to look at him as the force of his thrusts makes her lose the strength in her arms.

"Harder," she commands, head lying on the forest floor, and Free vows to himself to never again forget all the things Eruka really is.

He traces his tongue down her back languidly, a contrast to the rapid, almost desperate pace they have going, and writes his name in both her language and his, an old tongue he's almost forgotten during all the years he has lived. It's a mark, transparent and shiny under the moon, a small thing marking her as his while she's held him as her own for a very long time, her mark already written all over his soul without either of them knowing it.

The moon is high in the sky by the time their howling and moaning has stopped filling the forest. He looks at her, hair strewn with leaves and dirt and small twigs, skin covered in bite marks that she wields as proudly as war medals; she smirks at him and he wonders at what kind of state he must be in. There's the scent of blood and sweat and _other things_ in the air, belonging to both of them. She laughs as she motions for him to bend over to her level, brushing away forest debris from his head; he kisses her palm in retaliation. They're back to being surprisingly gentle, and it leaves the werewolf reeling in a way that's not entirely unpleasant; he wonders at what else his witch holds for him in the future.

Eruka takes hold of his hand as they head back, and for once, there's nothing more on her scent beyond affection.


End file.
